Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
“You must be Charlie.”
My brother beams. “Yes. Charlie Ford. Pleasure to meet you.”
Rafe shakes my brother’s hand. “It’s lovely to meet you too. Gunnar speaks highly of you.” Rafe’s eyes turn more serious. “Will you look out for him for me?”
Charlie blinks, surprised. “Of course.”
Then Rafe turns to me. He makes a move to step closer but must think better of it. He won’t want to reveal in public who we are to each other.
Instead, he says, “I’ll see you soon.”
Then, he turns on his heel, heads to his gate, and takes off for the other side of the ocean.
On the plane, Charlie asks me what’s going on.
“I think I’m kind of in love with Rafe Rodman,” I say, which feels terrifying and wonderful.
Charlie offers me a fist for knocking, but as I sink back in the chair, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do about Rafe.
46
A LITTLE MAGIC
Rafe
Priyam is a careful, detailed man, and the paperwork for Bespoke feels endless.
I might as well put a cot in my attorney’s Covent Garden office and camp out for days. But details are critical, so I once again read the documents Anne slides in front of me.
“Just a few more pages,” she says and moves to stand by the window overlooking the river below.
It’s a lovely view, but I’d rather it be the Golden Gate Bridge. Lately, I’ve been missing San Francisco. Lately, as in, since I left New York and Gunnar a little more than a week ago.
It feels like forever.
The deal still isn’t closed and won’t be for another few weeks.
But I read, sign, then thank my ace attorney.
“We can send the rest of the papers digitally, you know,” Anne offers.
It’s a thoughtful reminder that I don’t have to be here in person.
“I’ll think on it,” I say.
As I leave, I do just that.
I’ve met with Priyam, toured his facilities in London, and visited the factories nearby, since he’s locally based. I’ve met with the banks. All in all, I’ve spent a month in this city working all day and most of the night.
Do I need to be here? Or am I hanging on in my hometown for other reasons?
I exit the building and head past the Savoy, making my way to meet Christine for a beer. The air is chilly, and I tighten the scarf around my neck. It’s mid-November now. Baseball season is over. London is gray, and the river is quieter than usual. Fewer boats, fewer people. As I walk along the River Thames, I check my email. I must stay focused on work and on the deal. If I spend too much time staring at boats, I’ll keep asking myself questions about where I should be and if I’m supposed to return to San Francisco.
The first email I click on is from Matthew. The subject line says, “You’ll love these.”
He’s sent me shots from the You Do You shoot in Central America. I brace myself for an onslaught of feelings as I open the images.
Bloody hell.
I am not prepared. I stop in front of a Thai restaurant to catch my breath. There’s a shot of Gunnar on the beach, clear blue waters behind him, looking smoldering and entirely too far away from me.
What am I doing?
I scroll to the next one, a shot of him in a luxurious bathroom, shaving while wearing just a pair of the red devil briefs. My throat goes dry as my gaze roams over the picture.
But I’m both aroused and sad. My heart aches as memories taunt me.
Showering in my bathroom that night. Brushing our teeth together before bed. Getting breakfast together the next morning.
Dammit. I didn’t get enough of him at all during our brief time together.
I wanted thirty days. I got one terrific night.
I chose only one night.
Should I have chosen thirty instead? The question gnaws at me.
I click on another shot. Gunnar lounges at a table on a balcony, drinking a coffee, wearing reading glasses, perusing a book. He wears only basic white briefs that are snug and tight.
That image is just exquisite.
The ache in my heart intensifies.
I want the mornings too. I want the thirty days and thirty nights that I stupidly denied myself.
Putting my mobile away, I cross the street, needing distance from the pang the photos bring, but then I do a double take when I spot a poster of Lucas at a bus stop. It’s an advert for his fragrance.
I scan it clinically. A few months ago, the image might have smacked me square in the solar plexus, radiating through me painfully.
But this time I feel nothing—not even the ghost of the past hurt. Now I just see him as somebody from long ago.
He’s not the one who can hurt me anymore.
I’m the one who’s hurting me.
I am the architect of my misery.